


and I wake up alone

by OhGoshOhJeez



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Drug Abuse, Drug Use, Hallucinations, M/M, wet dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-06 20:48:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12825765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhGoshOhJeez/pseuds/OhGoshOhJeez





	and I wake up alone

Taking the drugs felt amazing to Edward, a man who’d only ever ingested vitamins and over-the-counter meds before, the invigorating feeling, the rush that shot through his skull down to his feet, felt a lot like his first kill.

Taking the drugs was easy, the aftermath was not.

After taking the hallucinogens to see his former best friend, he’d often awake to find himself laying down, vomit pooling at the side of his mouth, a sour feeling in his stomach. 

It was worth it, though, to see Oswald for just a little while longer. 

Sometimes, he couldn’t look directly at him, or he’d disappear, like a shadow at the corner of his vision, other times he was as clear as day, grinning at him, his suit soaking, the smell of rank seawater protruding from his corpse-like body.

Often times they spoke at length, about Edward shooting him, about Barbara Kean and the underworld, about well, anything that came to mind. Other times, they never spoke at all. 

It was nice, though, just to feel his company, even if sometimes his mind conjured him up to be rotting, blood pouring from his open wound. Those were the worst trips, the ones where Oswald really looked, well, dead. It really made the guilt sink in. 

The best trips, though Edward would never admit it, were the ones where Oswald was clean, dressed to the nines, with a seductive glare in his eye and his voice low and smooth, whispering sweetly into his ear while Edward snuck a hand down his pants. 

No matter how hard he tried to imagine it, or how many of the pills he took, it wasn’t real. He could never make it real. So after the drugs wore off, after Edward hit his high to the fullest, he’d close his eyes and wish, pray, that tomorrow Oswald would crawl out of that stinking river, determination in his eyes, that he would come visit Edward and wrap a hand around his throat, fucking hurt him like he deserved. 

Edward would swear off the stuff, he would pour them out or shove them in a drawer, vowing to stop, promising himself he would never, ever do it again.

But then he would sigh, squeeze his eyes shut tight and press another pill to his lips, bracing himself for his dead friend to come and chastise him or, if he was lucky, sing to him, until his problems drifted away in a cacophony of seawater and dulcet tones.  


End file.
